


Never Enough

by queenitsy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Belts, F/M, Face Slapping, Hurt/Comfort, Masochism, Nightmares, off-screen violence, submissive Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenitsy/pseuds/queenitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why did you come here, Derek?" Jennifer asked. "What do you want me to do?"</p>
<p>He didn't look up at her, just down at his hands, clenching his own thighs. Finally, he said, "I like when… like getting hurt. And I like when you take care of me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This will doubtlessly be jossed immediately (it already has been twice, lulz), but hey, it's how I'd like to picture their relationship. Endless thanks to Lielabell for beta reading, and to her and destroythemeek both for cheerleading. 
> 
> Note: not a lot of actual sex in this. Trigger warning: off-screen violence = branding.

Jennifer stared down at the mess of a human in front of her, then took a deep breath and dug her phone out of her purse. She'd dialed 9 and 1 when the same bloody hand that had landed on her window snaked up and grabbed her wrist. 

"No," he wheezed. "No cops."

"But you need a hos--"

" _No_ ," he said. 

She swallowed, tried to breathe. Derek -- he'd said his name was Derek, hadn't he? -- couldn't stay here like this. He was hurt badly, worse than the first time she'd seen him, and he needed help. But whatever he was, it wasn't… human. She was already aware of that. He was the same as the monsters that had attacked her, just more controlled. Human- _passing_ , and obviously interested in keeping whatever he really was a secret. So no cops. No hospital.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"Just get me -- get me out of here -- please. Into the car."

She opened the back door first, then hoisted him, an arm around under shoulder to drag him. He was enormous, tall and broad and all muscle, which meant he was also heavy and hard to move. "Sorry," she grunted, practically dropping him half-way into the car. He helped pull himself the rest of the way, clawing across her seat until he could tuck his feet in and she could shut the door.

"Where do you want me to take you? Do you have a house?" she asked, her hands shaking a little as she tried to start the car.

"Not safe there," he said. "Take me -- your place. Carwash."

"My place isn't a -- oh," she realized, nodding. "Yeah. Go through a carwash. I got it."

She pulled out and headed for the nearest carwash she knew about, chose the automatic track so she wouldn't need to get out of the car, and kept her hands, white-knuckled, on the wheel. This would wash away any trace of blood he'd gotten on the car, and… scent, she realized. She had some suspicions about what he really was, and if it was something lupine-related, then… then yes, getting rid of the scent from her car was important, too, in case something was following him.

She shuddered at the idea of whatever had done that to him, the guy who'd held off two other… other whatevers. He was obviously no weakling himself, so anything that had managed to tear him apart…

She sped the whole way home. She'd rented the bottom level of a split house, which meant, thank god, she didn't need to drag him up any stairs. Just inside, as quickly as she could manage, because this was the sort of thing at would draw looks from her neighbors. He got his feet under him and at least shuffle a little, which was helpful, but he couldn't even lean against the door while she unlocked it, since it would have left a nasty bloodstain.

The only floor in the place that wasn't carpeted was the kitchen. Together, they staggered towards it and he finally collapsed into one of her kitchen chairs. "What can I do?" she asked. "How can I help?"

"You already did." He gingerly raised a hand and pressed it to his torn up shoulder, winced, and let it drop. "I just need… rest. It'll heal."

"Heal? That? Have you _looked_ at it?" _Now_ the hysteria burbled up to the surface. She was good in a crisis, she always had been, but once it passed all the emotions came out. The same thing had happened in the boiler room. She'd kept her head, hidden, put as much space between herself and the monsters as possible and held it together until she was safe. She hadn't started shaking until she was halfway home, and had suppressed the real freak out until she'd been safely locked in her bedroom.

"I heal," he insisted.

She swallowed, staring at the torn up shirt -- of the three times she'd met him, she'd only seen him in a full shirt once. It would have been funny if he wasn't in danger of bleeding out on her kitchen table. But he was… not human. He'd heal. She just hated standing around uselessly waiting for it. 

"Wait here," she said, and jogged to the bathroom, where she kept a first aid kit. It was a small, pre-packaged thing, not really heavy duty enough for this, but it was something. She also grabbed an old towel and dampened it under the faucet, then hurried back to the kitchen. "I'm going to clean that up a little."

He looked up at her, startled, then nodded.

"Take your shirt off, so I can get to that, and brace yourself," she said.

He nodded a little and did as she asked, his face screwing up with pain as he had to move his arm. She tossed his shirt into the sink, and when she turned back towards him, found him sitting up straight, his hands resting lightly on his knees. When she began dabbing blood off the wound, he hissed in pain, and when she looked down, she saw his hands had… changed. His fingers were gnarled, his nails were claws, and they were digging into his pants so hard the fabric was fraying. She gaped for a moment, frozen, and they began to change back.

"Sorry," he said. "I can control it. It's -- safe. You're safe."

She hesitated, then nodded, and went back to cleaning up everywhere he was covered in blood. When she finished, he actually did look a bit better. Not just cleaner: she could see where the edges of his wounds had started to knit together, where bruises were already fading. She abandoned the towel in the sink, too, and fell into another of the kitchen chairs. "What are you?" she asked.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he asked.

She nodded. She knew enough now to guess, guess that fairytales and folklore and other things she'd taught in class were real, but she had to _know_. For sure.

"I'm a werewolf," he said, searching her for a response.

All she could manage was, "Oh." Then, "Excuse me. I need to go open a bottle of wine."

"Wine?" he repeated.

"It's all I have," she said. "And I really, really need a drink."

*

By the time Jennifer had drained most of the bottle of wine -- she offered Derek a glass but he turned it down -- Derek's wounds were fading, and she'd learned a lot more about him. Like that he was an alpha, trying to protect his pack, and that a pack of alphas was after them. (When she asked how the hell _that_ worked, because wasn't it a contradiction in terms, he just sighed a little and refilled her glass.)

It wasn't until she was mostly drunk and he was mostly healed, and it was the middle of the night, that he told her about the battle. About how he'd needed to take out the alpha-alpha to protect his pack, but instead he'd almost gotten one of his betas and his little sister killed. How now everyone thought he was dead and it was for the best. How he'd come to her because he had nowhere else to go.

"You can stay here," she blabbed, the wine destroying any brain-to-mouth-filter she usually possessed. "Just for the night, I mean. I mean -- not like that sounded. I'm not asking you to _spend the night_. We haven't even been on a date yet. Not that I'm saying we will ever, I didn't… I'm drunk."

He stood up.

"Don't go," she said.

"I'm not." He searched her cupboards for a minute, found a large glass, filled it with water from the pitcher in her fridge, and pressed it into her hand. 

"Oh," she giggled. "Thanks."

She drank it, and the cool liquid feeling good in her throat. She set the cup down and sighed, folded her arms on the table and let her head rest on them. The last thing she remembered was Derek's strong arms around her, picking her up. She woke up the next morning in her bed, a blanket tucked up around her, another glass of water waiting on her bedside table, along with two aspirin tablets. She downed them and pushed herself up, groaning.

In the kitchen, her bloody towels had been washed and hung over the backs of the chairs to dry. The scraps of shirt were gone, and so was Derek.

*

One of the nice things about her rental was a small patio out back, with access to the yard (which, even better, she didn't have to keep it mowed or anything). It wasn't very big, but it was still nice to have.

She got home from work four days later and found Derek sitting on it. She opened the back door and looked down at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm always okay."

"Yeah, except when you're bleeding to death. You want to come in?"

He nodded, rising to his feet in a graceful, fluid move, and said, "I'm always okay eventually."

It was a ridiculous thing to say, because he had a series of bleeding gashes down the side of his face. "Do you want me to take care of those for you?"

He shuffled a little, suddenly looking bizarre and sheepish, completely out of place. It was an ordinary kitchen, she was an ordinary person, and he was a supernatural creature. But he nodded, just a tiny bit.

She pulled out one of the chairs and he dropped into it. She retrieved her first aid kit, made a mental note to restock it. Derek sat statue still while she cleaned out the cuts and applied an antibiotic ointment, even though it had to sting. It must have done some good, though, because the cuts started healing right in front of her eyes, much more rapidly than the gaping wounds he'd had before.

"Not to self, Neosporin works on werewolves," she mumbled.

"It's not that," Derek said, then, "I mean, it helped. It's that they weren't from an alpha."

"Then what were they from?"

Derek stared down at the table for a moment, at where the first aid kit was still open, its contents strewn across the cheap Ikea surface. Eventually he said, "My sister. A beta. When they found out I was alive… they weren't exactly happy to see me."

"She did this to you?"

He nodded.

"But if she's a beta, you should be strong enough to stop her. Shouldn't you?"

Derek nodded, but didn't say anything, which meant Jennifer had to piece it together for herself. Derek could have stopped her, but didn't, so…

"She was pissed that you didn't tell her you were alive?"

Derek nodded again. "I thought the alphas would let it go, if I was dead. They were after me. But they went after my pack anyway, and I wasn't even… barely got there in time."

"Was everyone okay?"

"Yeah. There's… a beta, he's not in my pack. Not really. But he looks out for them." Derek was still staring intently downward. "He got them all out okay. And then my sister… She was right. I was useless to them. Staying away didn't help. Showing up didn't help." His breaths were coming in deep gasps, his shoulders and chest heaving with them. "I can't do _anything_."

She sat down across the table from him, reached for his hand. He looked at it, stared at where she held it in both of his.

"You're trying," she told him.

"It's not enough." He looked up at her, and he looked _haunted_. "Nothing I can do is ever enough."

*

The good news was, the next time Derek came to see her, he wasn't bleeding anywhere. The bad news was, it was early Sunday morning and he was waiting on her patio. She wasn't expecting him and shrieked, thinking someone was breaking in. But she saw him wince through the window, realized it was Derek, and let him in.

Then became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing a tank top and panties, and nothing else, because no one was supposed to be lurking around her house on a Sunday freaking morning.

"Are you dying? Are you badly wounded?" she demanded.

"No?" He blinked at her.

"Good. Sit. I'll be right back. Jesus, you could have called, instead you scare me half to death…" she mumbled as she hurried to her bedroom to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a robe. 

"Sorry," he said, when she reappeared. He was sitting in the same chair as always. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I didn't want to call and wake you up. It's not an emergency."

"Then what are you doing here?" she asked, which probably came out ruder than she'd intended. She didn't actually mind him coming by -- he was the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome, he'd saved her life, and he was by far the most fascinating person she'd ever encountered. Okay, fascinating like she thought a serial killer probably would be, a little bit broken and impossible to understand, but still incredibly charismatic.

"I just…" He hesitated, then smiled, but it was so obviously forced that it didn't look right on his face. "Just wanted to come by and say hello, you know, without bleeding on you or anything."

"Sweet," she said, and walked over to the coffeemaker. "I appreciate it. I'd like the truth, though, if you don't mind."

She glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see him gape and then force his expression back to neutral. But please, she was a high school teacher; she knew a bad excuse when she heard one.

He didn't say anything while she made the coffee. She waited him out, eventually getting up to pour herself a cup. She poured one for him, too, and when he didn't speak up, gave it a splash of milk, a little sugar, and sat it down in front of him.

He wrapped a hand around the mug but didn't drink it. Instead, he said, "I had a nightmare. I had to get out for awhile, and…"

"And?"

"I think you're the only person who wouldn't shut your door in my face right now."

She sipped her coffee. "What were you dreaming about? Must be pretty bad, to upset a werewolf."

"You have no idea." He finally picked up his cup and swallowed, though he made a face at the taste. She figured it was just an excuse not to talk about it. So she probably should have let it go.

Except he'd come to her, and she was willing to bet it wasn't for the coffee.

"So tell me," she said.

He studied her for a few moments, gazing long enough that she was almost uncomfortable. Then he nodded, and he told her. He told her about how in his dream, the sister he'd just found twisted into the body of the sister who'd died a few months ago, about the scent of smoke and a woman's perfume. 

He told her about someone named Kate, and his uncle Peter, and that the fire had been real.

He told her it was his fault.

And, because she had no idea how to make any of that better, how to help him even a little bit, she did the only thing she could think of. She stood up, kissed the top of his head, and made him pancakes for breakfast.

* 

Sometime after pancakes but before ordering in lunch, Jennifer said, "I think we need some ground rules."

"Okay," Derek said, which was interesting, because if he was an alpha werewolf he probably wasn't used to people demanding he do things their way. But he didn't even question it.

"You'll give me a heart attack if you're lurking around outside. You can always come over if you want to, but call me first, okay?"

He nodded. 

"Okay, and, uh…" She eyed the stack of dishes from that morning: the syrup-covered plates, the pan and mixing bowl, the coffee mugs. "And if I make you food, you have to do the dishes."

He nodded again, and without any other prompting, got up and slid over to the sink. 

"I was mostly joking about that," she said.

"I don't mind," he answered. "Any other rules you want me to follow? No shoes in the house?"

"With you, more like no blood on the carpets," she said. "But I think that'll do for now."

Up to his elbows in suds, he glanced over at her and said, "Well. Let me know if you think of any others."

*

It was sometime _after_ the lunch they ordered in that she asked if he wanted to go out sometime, do something that didn't involve him being traumatized in some way. He laughed a little, but shook his head.

"Oh," she said. "I thought… thought you were interested in -- I mean, it doesn't matter, you can still call me whenever --"

"Jennifer," he interrupted. "I am interested. I like you. But if anyone sees us together, you could be in danger. No one knows I've been coming here, not even my pack, and if someone finds out…"

"Yeah, okay," she said. "Werewolf fight aftermath looks really nasty, I don't want to be involved in that."

"I won't let anyone find out," he promised. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

He'd already proved that once, protected her back in the boiler room, even though it nearly killed him. So she believed him, and she nodded. 

"But you could come over sometime," she said. "Just for fun. No nightmares, no blood, just… spending time together."

"If that's what you want," he said.

"It is."

*

Derek was as good as his word. She got a call on her way home from work that Wednesday -- "Do you mind if I come over?" -- and she stopped for takeout on the way. Derek arrived a few minutes after she did, and handed her a bottle of wine, the same kind she'd been drinking the first time he'd been over.

They ate dinner, and he did the dishes even though she hadn't actually cooked. After, she flipped on the TV to some stupid sitcom, and they sat there and it was pretty comfortable. Somehow, she ended up lounging around with her feet in his lap.

"Not gonna offer me a foot rub?" she joked, kicking his thigh a little.

"All you had to do was ask," he said, and reached for her foot. She started to tell him she was joking -- again -- but he began working with his fingers, firm and perfect. He seemed to know exactly where her shoes had aggravated her feet during the day, and worked out all the knots and tension until she was practically melting.

"God, _come here_ ," she panted, when she could barely take it anymore. He carefully set her feet back on the couch, and she expected him to shift up the couch to lie next to her, or even on top of her. Either one would have been totally fine with her.

Instead, he rolled off the couch and knelt in front of it -- in front of _her_. He looked up at her, gorgeous and earnest and actually smiling, and asked, "What else can I do for you, Jennifer?"

Which was definitely not what she had expected.

But holy hell, she could work with it.

*

Unfortunately, the next time he called, it wasn't just to come over and eat takeout and have sex on the couch. He sounded shaken, and she was waiting at the door when he arrived. She pulled him in quickly, first aid kit already waiting on the kitchen table.

Claw marks ran down one side of his face, barely missing his eye. It wasn't bleeding anymore, but hadn't finished healing, either. She didn't see any blood on him, and his clothes weren't torn up. She frowned a little. "What happened? Alphas?"

"Yeah."

"You don't look… _so_ bad," she said. She'd honestly expected worse, considering how torn up he'd been when they'd met.

"I cleaned up a little. I'm fine."

"You've got an interesting definition of fine," she said, looking at the gashes on his face. "Where else are you hurt?"

"It's nothing --"

"Derek," she snapped, because after working with teenagers, she had no patience for lies or excuses. Especially not if he was coming to her for help. "Answer the question."

"The alphas, they did… did something to my back," he said.

"Show me," she demanded.

He hesitated, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

"I can't help you if hide it from me. Show me," she repeated, and this time he nodded, and peeled his shirt off, then turned away from her so she could see his back. And oh, god. She gasped, staring.

She'd seen the tattoo last time he'd been over, the black triskele between his shoulder blades. But now, carved onto his skin over it, was another variation. A similar symbol, with straight lines and sharp angles instead of curves. It was angry red, and it looked like they'd cut it into his skin and then burned it, branded him. And though it wasn't bleeding, it wasn't scabbed over, either. It wasn't healing.

"Derek," she gasped. "What happened? How can I help? Is it -- do you need ice?"

He nodded, silent. She didn't know what else to do, so she grabbed an ice pack out of her freezer and pressed it to the raw skin between his shoulder blades. He gasped, and she was sure it hurt, had no idea how he was even just standing upright, not passing out from the pain.

"Do you want to sit?" she asked.

He nodded, but it was too awkward. He couldn't hold the ice pack himself, so she had to do it for him, and somehow it ended up with him kneeling in front of her kitchen chair, her sitting down, holding the ice pack carefully.

"Will you tell me what happened?" she asked.

"Do you really want to know?"

After everything else he'd told her, she couldn't believe he had to ask. But she said, "Yes, please."

"They… they want me to join them. They were threatening one of my betas, and when I went to help him… I distracted them so he could get away. And they caught me. Their leader had them mark me."

"Mark you," she repeated, shifting the ice pack. "But won't it fade? Heal?"

"No. This one won't."

She gasped again. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." He swallowed. "That _will_ fade. But I don't mind it. The pain is…" He looked over his shoulder at her. "I don't mind pain."

She didn't really know what to make of that. What she finally asked is, "Is your…beta… okay?"

"Yes. They only grabbed him to get to me."

She frowned a little. "What aren't you telling me, Derek? What's really going on?"

He slumped forward a little, spine rounding. 

"Derek?" she repeated quietly.

"I could have stopped them," he whispered. "But I didn't, not once B-- once my beta was free. The way it hurts is… what I need."

Her hand was trembling a little from the cold. She peeled the ice pack away from his skin, set it aside, and pressed her frozen hand to the center of his tattoo, the center of the new scar. He gasped, his body going tense. 

"Jennifer," he said. " _Please._ "

"Please what?" she asked him. "Why did you come here, Derek? What do you want me to do?"

He didn't look up at her, just down at his hands, clenching his own thighs. Finally, he said, "I like when… like getting hurt. And I like when you take care of me."

She lifted her hand from his back, tugged his shoulder until he slid around to look up at her. He looked a little lost, and a little scared, and he'd let them do this to him without fighting back. They'd threatened someone he cared about, they'd tortured him, and he'd come to her.

He wanted her to take care of him, and she would.

"I'm glad you came to me," she said, willing her voice not to shake. "I want to take care of you."

He let out a tiny breath, his eyes shutting.

"Look at me," she demanded, and his eyes opened immediately. "I want to take care of you, but only if you stop this. Those -- those alphas are dangerous, and if you need to be hurt so badly -- if you trust me to take care of you, trust me to hurt you, too. And promise you won't do this again, won't let them do this to you. Not if you can stop them."

Derek didn't smile, but he nodded, and he said, "I promise."

*

In the end, she really didn't know what to do. His healing would kick in and close over the wound, leaving just the scar, so all she could do was make him as comfortable as possible while it happened.

She brought him to the bathroom and drew a bath. Not steaming hot like she preferred, but cool water, which she hoped would take some of the heat out of the burn. She also grabbed a few of the scented bath salts she liked, for the evenings she curled up in hot water with a glass of wine and a good book. Honey vanilla. She figured it probably smelled soothing.

Derek climbed in when she told him to. He must have showered after the fight, because he was already perfectly clean, no blood on him. Even so, she knelt next to the tub and rubbed him down gently, wet his hair and shampooed it for him. He sighed a little as she massaged his scalp.

"Good?" she asked.

"Yeah," he breathed. "It's nice. You're -- it smells like you."

That made sense, considering it was the same shampoo she used every morning. She rinsed it clean for him, dug out her fluffiest towel, the one she gave to her mother every time she visited, and wrapped him in it. She was as careful as she could be around the burn, but when she touched it by accident, he just gasped and didn't complain. 

When she finished drying him off, leaving the towel wrapped around his waist, he looked a little bit less shaken, and a lot exhausted. "Come with me," she said, taking his hands. She led him to her bedroom, a little embarrassed by the bras hanging from her closet's doorknob, the clutter on every surface, and the boxes she hadn't unpacked yet.

He didn't seem to notice. She pulled down the top sheet and nodded him over. "Take that off, get in."

He stripped the towel off and hung it neatly from the back of her desk chair, then hesitated, looking at her. "Will you stay with me?"

"Of course," she said. 

He slid between the sheets. She positioned him on his stomach, so there wouldn't be any weight on his back, then changed into her own pajamas. Well, into her tank top and panties, anyway. He was watching her with sleepy eyes, and she flushed a little and picked one of her nicer pairs of underwear.

She reached for a scented candle, another of her favorites for pampering herself, but he made a slight whimpering noise. She looked over at him.

"Not a fan of candles?"

"Not a fan of fire."

She set the candle back down. "No problem. I'm gonna turn off the light and get in next to you, okay?"

He nodded and she did what she'd said. She didn't touch him, just lay next to him.

"Close your eyes," she told him. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

"Yes, of course."

She expected him to reach for her hand, but he rolled over on to his side, curled up against her. She wrapped her arms around him, felt his still-damp hair against her chest. Eventually he moved his arms, too, wrapping them around her.

It wasn't exactly the most comfortable position, but she didn't mind. Just held still, tried to project calm, and let him settle against her, breathe her in. She didn't think she'd fall asleep like that, but that didn't matter. Not as long as he did.

But somehow she fell asleep anyway, waking up hours later alone.

*

"You don't always have to vanish like that," she greeted him, the next time he came over, two days later. He was holding a take out bag, and smiling sheepishly.

"I didn't mean to. I just didn't want to wake you," he said. "But I needed to get back to my pack."

"Wake me up next time," she said.

He nodded. "If that's what you want."

"It is," she said, then, "Do you really like it, Derek? Doing what I want?"

He nodded again, and she remembered not just how easily he'd fallen into doing what she told him, but how eager he'd been for her to give him more direction. How when they'd had sex, he'd asked what she wanted him to do for her, how he did the dishes even though she hadn't been serious when she'd told him to. How much he had to trust her, to ask her to take care of him.

"Do you mean in general?" she pressed. "Or in bed? Or…what?"

"Both?" he said, unsure, and he was blushing. 

"That's what you like?"

"Yeah," he said. He set the food down the counter. "I like… I wasn't always an alpha. And I used to… when it was me and Laura…" He trailed off.

She told herself to be patient. "Why don't you serve that up and tell me about it while we eat?"

He opened her cupboard obediently, and she felt a little tingle, knowing it wasn't just him being polite, that she wasn't imagining that he always did what she asked. He served the takeout up into two bowls, carried them to the table, and sat across from her. 

Between bites, he explained, "In packs, it's… there are just some people who are meant to be alphas and some who aren't. Usually when an alpha dies, unless she's killed, then… the new alpha is someone with the personality for it, someone who's ready for it. And Laura was always going to be an alpha."

Laura. His sister who'd died. Jennifer ate a little more, then asked, "She used to boss you around?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. It was just the two of us, after the fire, and she… she took care of me. It wasn't like with you," he added quickly. "No sex, she was my _sister_. But she took care of me. When I needed to get out of my skin, she helped."

Jennifer wasn't sure quite what that meant, but she just nodded at him to continue.

"It was like… she'd just have me run laps around the block, or work out until I was exhausted, give me these drills to do. Anything. Until I was too tired to think. But then she died, and… I'm not an alpha like she was. It wasn't natural. And now I have a pack and I have to look out for them, but I'm not… I don't know how to be like she was. And I need… I shouldn't need it, but I do."

"To get out of your skin," Jennifer said, finishing the mental puzzle at last, finally able to see him clearly. "To have someone take care of you, tell you what to do. Make you feel like she did."

"I know it's not… I'm not exactly boyfriend material," Derek said, and before she could interrupt him with just how wrong that was, he added, "But if you can put up with me, I can make it worth your while. I'll do anything you want me to, let you do anything you want to me. Or I can pay you--"

"Derek," she interrupted, heart pounding. "You don't have to pay me, and you don't have to do anything you don't want to. I want to help you, and I think… I think I might like this?"

Hopeful was a very good look on him. He seemed to light up. "You do?"

"Well, I always thought I was pretty vanilla," she confessed. "But the thought of having you cater to my every whim is, uh, not exactly turning me off."

He laughed, and she recognized the relief bubbling to his surface. "And the rest? You're okay with that?"

The rest. The part where she'd offered to hurt him so he wouldn't let someone else do it. The part where he needed someone to soothe him, heal him, make him whole again. 

"We can make that work," she promised.

*

"Jennifer, please," Derek moaned, and he was staring at her like he was haunted. He'd called a little after 4, and she had work in a few hours, but he'd sounded so desperate. He'd already been waiting outside, phone in hand, so she'd just had to let him in, and now…

"What happened?" she asked. "What do you need?"

"It was another dream. I can't, I just, I need… I need you to hurt me. Please."

She swallowed heavily. She knew she'd agreed to this, and she was willing to do it. Anything, to keep him from doing something risky and stupid. And after their conversation, she'd even researched it. Kind of. She'd done some googling and had mostly found porn, the kind that meant she'd have to erase her browser history if she was ever going to bring her laptop in to use in class, because kids were curious and she didn't want to get fired. 

It had all looked really overwhelming, with people tied up intricately into positions she'd never even imagined, things involving toys and chains and clamps and she didn't know what else or where to buy them or if that was what Derek even wanted. She hadn't exactly given up, but she hadn't known what to _do_ , either. Especially not to hurt someone with superhuman strength and endurance, who'd heal within seconds.

But she had at least gleaned some really important stuff, which was why, after she led him to the living room, she said, "Okay. I'm going to… I'll do this for you, but if you want me to stop, you need to say so. And I will. If you don't like anything, just… remember that. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Okay," she said, trying to think of what the hell to do next. She definitely wasn't up to anything complicated, wouldn't even know where to start with that, but maybe it didn't have to be that hard. She sat on the couch, nerves sending her stomach flying, but nodded at him. "I want you to kneel, right there."

He dropped into the position immediately, just in front of her. She looked down at him, saw someone fraying at the seams, barely keeping himself together.

"I'm going to slap you," she said, her voice shaking a little. "Nod if that's okay."

He nodded.

"Okay." She took a deep breath. "Okay."

She'd never slapped anyone before, not for real, but she raised her hand and hit. Pain lanced through her arm, probably at least as much as through his face, and her hand felt rough and tingly. He was always stubbly, every time she'd seen him, but now it tore at her palm.

He moaned a little.

"Was that okay?" she asked.

He nodded. "Again? Please?"

"Yeah," she agreed, and she hit him again, and again. Each time, he tensed for a moment beforehand, then relaxed, less rigid every time. Her hand was throbbing, and his cheek was pink. But he looked so much less like he might shatter at any moment. 

She didn't count how many times she struck him, wondered if he did. When she really didn't think she could do it again, her arm tired and her palm numb, she reached out and ran her fingers gently across his perfect cheekbone. It was warm to the touch, red but already fading.

"Did that help?" she asked. 

"Some," he said. "Can you -- more, please? Maybe… harder?"

"Harder," she repeated. Jesus. She'd barely known how to do _this_ , and she doubted it was supposed to hurt her, too. Not that she was going to tell him it had. But if he needed more, then she'd have to try something different. Her stomach lurched and she stood. "Follow me."

He did. She led him to the bedroom, pointed at the bed. "Strip." She didn't watch him do it, just turned to her closet, began digging through the disorganized mess of clothes and accessories.

By the time she'd found what she wanted, a thick leather belt that went perfectly with her favorite boots, he was naked and kneeling on the bed. Her breath caught in her throat. His cheek was still pink, he was rigid and staring at her, and his dick was hard between his legs. Which probably shouldn't have been a surprise, but she hadn't thought about at all before.

"Turn over," she said, her throat dry and her voice coming out less commanding, more creaking. "Hands and knees. I'm going to hit you with this, okay?"

"Yes," he said, his voice full of all the conviction hers had lacked, as he rolled over, propping himself up. 

"Okay." She took a deep breath, steeling herself. She'd definitely never done anything like this before either, but it couldn't be that hard. She looked down at him, her heart almost beating out of her chest. He was gorgeous, even where his skin was marred by the brand, and she wanted to give him everything he wanted. He was tense, desperate, so she'd do this for him.

She swung the belt. It caught his hip, above where she'd been aiming, but he gasped a little, and it turned into a moan as he exhaled.

"Again?" she asked.

"Yes," he breathed.

So she did it again, and again, and again. Her aim improved a little as she got used to the feel of it, both the belt in her hand and the shock of impact. The skin of his side and ass and thighs turned red as puffy marks raised, and a few times, when the belt's edge caught him instead of the flat, she drew thin lines of blood. 

"Is that okay?" she asked, staring at the first.

"Good," he said. "It's so good."

She took a deep breath before starting again, watching as the tiny cuts stitched themselves up in the space of heartbeats. She got the feeling that only her repeated, quick blows kept his skin red; any hesitation, even just a few seconds, and it started to fade.

"Can you control the healing?" she asked.

"Some."

"Can you stop it?" she asked.

"A little. For awhile," he said.

"Good. I want you to stop it," she said. "Until I tell you to, I don't want this to heal. If you want it to hurt, then let it _hurt_. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," he said. 

"Good." She looked down at him again, at his warm, red skin. She reached down, ran a hand down his flank, and he shuddered at the touch. _Good_. She backed up, raised the belt, and struck again.

 

The next time she drew blood, the cut didn't heal instantly. The welts she raised stayed there, and the skin turned from pink to bright, angry red. And it was beautiful.

Eventually, her arm got tired. She set the belt down on the bed and sat down next to Derek. "Look at me."

He did, staring at her with something like awe. The desperate, fragile expression was gone, and the tension in his frame was all from his arms, holding him up, not like his whole body was about to shatter.

She reached out, stroked a hand through his hair. He sighed, leaning into the touch.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Is that enough?"

"It's never enough," he mumbled.

She shut her eyes, trying to steel herself, to think of something else she could do for him. And then she _knew_. She put a hand on his side and nudged him over. He rolled over obediently, gasping sharply when he put weight on his reddened ass.

"Hurts?" she asked. He nodded. "Is it healing yet?"

He shook his head. "You didn't say to."

"No, I didn't. You're being so good, Derek, just let it hurt a little bit longer. Can you do that for me?"

He nodded.

"Good. Okay. I'm going to…" She looked down the length of his body, at his cock, still semi-hard. "I'm going to jerk you off. I want you to come with it still hurting. Can you do that?"

"Yes," he breathed. "Jennifer, yes, please."

"Okay. Good." She shifted down the bed, between his legs. He spread them, making room for her, so all she had to do was reach down. She did, but first she slid her hand down his ass, around, felt the warmth radiating from it. He shuddered and she knew it must ache, sensitive. But he wanted it to hurt, he needed it to. He _wanted_ this.

Resolved, she pulled her hand back around, wrapped it around his cock. He gasped, bucking into her touch, but she shhhed him and pressed his hips down with her other hand. "Stay still, Derek, don't move. Just let me."

His body went rigid immediately, perfectly still. 

"God, you're so good at this," she murmured, as she began to stroke. There was nothing gentle about it as she moved, her grip tight. She practically yanked, and he let out this little, broken noise that was -- that was perfect, and it was only a minute before he came all over her hand. Then his whole body went limp, his chest heaving with enormous breaths, no tension left anywhere in him.

She rolled off the bed and grabbed a tissue, dabbed her hand clean, and then his stomach.

"Are you healing?" she asked.

He shook his head no.

"Okay," she said. "Roll over again. I want to see."

He did, lying on his stomach, head resting on his arms. His ass was still red and swollen, marked up. She smiled a little and stood up, grabbed one of the bottles of lotion off her dresser, pumped some into her hands. She'd read about this, too, how it was important to take care of people who wanted to be dominated, to make sure they felt safe and were okay when it ended. And that had to be especially true for Derek, who'd come to her because he liked how she took care of him.

"It's okay," she told him. "You can heal now. I'm going to help you cool off."

He must have, because even as she soothed his reddened skin, gently rubbing lotion onto where it was injured, it cooled under her hand. She massaged it in, and finally leaned down to press a kiss to the small of his back.

"You are so good," she told him, sliding up the bed. 

He smiled at her, like he was a totally different person than the one who'd shown up a hair's breadth away from breaking down. 

"Do you want to stay here?" she asked him. "Until I need to leave for work?"

He nodded, and let out a contented sigh when she slid into place next to him. She reached up to turn out the light.

"Can I…?" he asked, a hand on her side.

"Of course."

He curled in close to her again, and she stroked his back lightly.

"Do you want to… want me to…?" he mumbled. "I can get you off."

She shook her head a little. Another time, maybe, but she didn't want him to think he had to do anything in exchange for this. This was just her trying to help. Trying to take care of him. She didn't think it was about sex for either one of them -- it was about caring, about hurting and healing, and not having to do any of it alone.

"No, I'm good," she promised. "But tomorrow, or… soon, we need to talk. So I know what you want, okay, Derek? Because I don't really know what I'm doing, and I want to make it good for you, and I don't know where to start."

"This was a pretty good start," he mumbled against her skin.

"Yeah, but we still need to talk. I want you to come over tonight after work. Will you?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good," she said. "I'll cook dinner."

"An' I'll do the dishes," he said.

She actually smiled a little at that. "Yeah, you will," she agreed. "Dinner, and dishes, and talking, and maybe sex after. Sound good?"

"Mmm."

"Okay," she said. "Great. We'll do that tonight, and now… we can just sleep."

Derek seemed halfway there already, curled up next to her, face pressed against her shoulder. They lay there quietly for a few minutes, and she was starting to drift off himself when she heard him mumble, "Thank you."

"Of course," she said, still stroking his back. "Any time."

When he dropped off to sleep, still wrapped around her, she knew that even if she had a lot to learn about how to do this, how to make it safe, and make it good, and make sure it helped him, she'd find a way to do it. Because if he'd managed to sleep like this after a nightmare like _that_ , then for tonight, at least, it had been enough.


End file.
